


Kost

by FoxNonny



Series: gra - dilseacht - cairdeas [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bull's POV, Fluff, Like so much fluff you won't believe, M/M, baths are involved, fluff and some angst but seriously it's mostly fluff, sadly dorian isn't in this one but he's mentioned a lot, some mentions of self-harm disordered eating and PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 07:53:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9538634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoxNonny/pseuds/FoxNonny
Summary: The Iron Bull goes to visit Mahanon after his return from a taxing excursion, and finds him asleep on the stairs.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The title is in Qunlat because it's Bull's POV, and means "peace."

The elf fell asleep on the fucking stairs. 

Bull just watches him for a few seconds as Mahanon's chest rises and falls, his head pillowed on an outflung forearm, the rest of his tiny frame curled up awkwardly across the steps. There's not much that can surprise Bull anymore - to say he's seen some shit would be a massive fucking understatement, but _man_. This elf.

This fucking elf. He always manages to find a way. 

"Okay," he says eventually, and leans down to scoop the elf into his arms. Mahanon makes a very small noise at this - not really a protest, not really much of anything - and turns his face into Bull's chest, pressing closer. "Wow, you are _really_  out of it, huh. What if I was an assassin or some shit, hmm? What then, would you've just snored at them? Acting cute to get out of trouble only works on me, Boss. Well. And Dorian."

He says all this while continuing up the steps to Mahanon's room, passing through the wards around the place with a discontented little shiver. _Magic_. If he'd told himself a year ago that he'd wind up narrowing his sex life down to two mages- one, a little Dalish wildling with the power to step into the Fade and back, the other a _'Vint_  of all the fucking things...

"And here I was coming to say hello 'cause I haven't seen you in a few weeks," Bull says, topping the landing. The cleaning staff have been in to prepare, if the lit candles and freshly-turned bedsheets are anything to go by. He considers getting Mahanon out of his travel clothes and straight into bed, but he catches the scent of something clean and herbal-smelling, and finds that the staff have also left a full hot bath waiting in Mahanon's bathing chamber. "I guess this 'Inquisitor' thing has a few perks, huh? Alright, you're wearing half the road on you, let's deal with that."

Mahanon murmurs something - Elvhen, probably, it's definitely not Common - and fuck it, Bull smiles. 

-

He remembers, often, the first time he heard anything about the "Herald of Andraste-" first from his superior officers, then from Krem. The report from the other Ben Hassrath was all clinical descriptions - age, race, sex, height, eye colour, hair colour, clan lineage, _mage_. It helped paint a bit of a picture, but Bull knew Krem's assessment was probably going to be more useful to him.

_Not that he ever would have said that, back when he was loyal to the Qun._

Krem was a little grim-faced when he returned from Haven, with scouts from the burgeoning Inquisition close on his heels, the "Herald" only a day or two behind.

"He's just a kid, Chief," Krem told him quietly, voice barely carrying over the crackle of the fire they'd built to combat the Storm Coast's chill. "I mean, not _really_  a kid, I guess, but not much older. Looks like they just yanked the sorry bastard out of the woods, slapped a title on him and put him in charge of fixing everything."

"So a puppet, then?" Bull said, frowning. "The Seeker, Rutherford, Red- they've all got ambitions, of one kind or another."

Krem shook his head. "I thought so, but I hung around a while to watch. It looks like he's really trying to do this thing right, you know? Didn't feel like he had anything rehearsed when he spoke to me. I don't think he could tell a lie even if he wanted to."

Bull huffed a laugh at that. "He's not gonna live too long if that's true. So, what, you're telling me this all couldn't have happened to a nicer guy?"

"He's gonna need help, is what I'm saying," Krem said. "A _lot_  of help."

Bull shrugged. They would help, sure, for a price, and so he could do right by the Qun.

Still, despite his reports and despite Krem's assessment, Mahanon still managed to surprise him that first day. He nearly brought his ax down on the tiny elf barrelling out of the bushes onto the beach, raising his staff as lightning gathered along the length. He caught himself just in time, assumed the Inquisition was there to help, and got back to fighting the bad guys, all the while keeping track of this "kid" Krem seemed so worried about. 

He was young, like Krem had said, like Bull's reports said - but Bull had already been tossed into some pretty hefty shit at that age, so he didn't take too much of that into account. Just by the way he worked his staff, the way he fought, Bull could tell he was still new to real life-and-death battle, and he caught each wince crossing the elf's face every time he took someone down. He was still pretty deadly despite whatever reservations he had about killing; kind of a force of nature all on his own, the storm making a poetic backdrop to his elemental magic. 

_Asaaranda_ , Bull thought to himself, watching Mahanon fight. He wasn't the biggest fan of magic, but there was something entrancing about how Mahanon commanded the wind and the rain, seeming to pull bolts of lightning from inside himself, rather than from the sky. _Thunderstorm._

Pretty though it was, none of this was what really interested Bull, though.

What interested Bull, was that this minute, misplaced Dalish elf, the last person who should have been leading anyone into battle, accounted for his own men the way a good commander would: Constantly checking their positions, darting forward to help if someone put themselves in danger. And not only his own men - Bull's too. He seemed to catch sight of the fireball cast at Krem's head the same moment Bull did, and had cast a shield around Krem to deflect it before Bull could even call out a warning. He wasn't necessarily great at leading, but the instinct to protect, to get _everyone_  home again, was there. 

He doesn't remember the exact words of his first conversation with Mahanon, as clearly as he remembers his thoughts. He remembers how Mahanon looked him over as he approached him, those grey-blue eyes widening a little, and he almost laughed because _yeah_ , he could see what Krem meant. It was like every thought the elf had was writing itself across his face, practically spelling out each step of his thought process. 

And he thought about what he said the night before, after Krem told him the elf couldn't lie. _He's not gonna live too long, if that's true._

He didn't think that assessment was wrong, exactly, watching the elf stumble a little over his words as the rain and wind sloughed the blood and sweat from his face. But the thought of that spark of life fading from his enormous and far too expressive eyes... it just felt like such a waste. He tried not to think about it.

He especially tried not to think about it as he offered the Chargers for the Inquisition's use, and Mahanon's face lit up to such an extent that Bull couldn't help but throw in a little wink, choking back a snort as this caused the elf to gape at him for a few long seconds, and promptly trip over his feet as he turned to rejoin his companions. _Cute._  

So, check one, the elf was attracted to him - that had its uses. Both for tactics and fun.

(And anyway, Bull could see himself getting behind that in a very literal sense. He thought about adding a note to his next report; " _How bad would it be if I fucked the 'Herald of Andraste'? Asking for a friend._ ")

But then through one thing or another, one adventure or ten or twenty, Bull started to really get to _know_  Mahanon. How he was inexperienced but willing to learn, kind but willing to kill and pretty damn good at it too. In his reports back to the Ben Hassrath he found himself constantly underlining the importance of not underestimating this tiny forest elf; how underneath that open smile and gentle heart there was a sharp mind and, cutting down to the core of him, a survivor's force of will and self-preservation that Bull still isn't sure Mahanon knows he has. 

He mentioned in some of those reports, as far as it was necessary, how he and Mahanon were becoming friends. And how the elf's most exploitable fault was his overabundance of trust. 

(The Ben Hassrath still have those reports. Mahanon still has that fault. Bull thinks about it a lot.)

That shitty fucking day on the Storm Coast almost a year after he met Mahanon for the first time, when it came down to the fucking dreadnought or the Chargers, Bull could feel himself tearing in two as he watched Mahanon struggle with his decision. He knew, watching the now-Inquisitor's dangerously honest expression for any indication of what Mahanon might say before he said it, that he wasn't weighing the Chargers' lives against the alliance with the Qunari; he was weighing the Chargers' lives against the lives of those aboard the dreadnought. And Bull could see how close he was to choosing the dreadnought, because a hundred souls was a heavy thing to weigh against.

But Mahanon chose the Chargers, because he knew them. Because he knew Bull. And he stayed to watch as the dreadnought was sunk, destroying any chance of an alliance as well as a hundred lives with it. And despite knowing his place in the Qun would be taken away from him, despite fearing how this might destroy his sense of self, despite staring into an uncertain and unknowable future alone for the first time, Bull had never been so fucking grateful in all his life. 

-

Bull nearly has Mahanon's armour off - a heavy leather tunic, travel-stained and battle-worn - when he hears Mahanon murmur, "You don't waste any time, do you?"

He glances up to see Mahanon smiling at him, his eyes still heavy-lidded with exhaustion, dark purple stains of sleeplessness weighing on them. It's always a little jarring, seeing Mahanon after a few weeks apart, as the role of Inquisitor takes a physical toll on him. There are lines between his brows and in the corners of his eyes, and he's clearly lost weight he can't afford to lose. 

But Bull smiles back, easing the leather tunic off and putting it aside to start on what's left of Mahanon's cotton undershirt, and says, "You know me, Boss. I get all frustrated when you're away for too long."

"What, has Dorian not been taking care of you? I thought that's why you've got two of us."

"Nah, he's off doing a thing. I think he's back at the end of the week." Bull finishes unlacing the shirt, and adds, "I found you taking a nap on the stairs, by the way. Is that a Dalish custom I don't know about?"

Mahanon blinks. "Creators, really? I don't remember falling asleep..."

"I heard you guys had some trouble on the road home-" Bull stops as he pushes the fabric of Mahanon's shirt aside, frowning. "Huh. Looks like I found it."

He's no stranger to cuts, bumps, and bruises - fuck knows he's had enough of his own over the years, and honestly, he's pretty sure a day spent without collecting at least a scratch or two is a waste of a day - but the black and purple mottling across a sizeable expanse of Mahanon's left side is wince-worthy to look at. 

"It looks worse than it is-" Mahanon starts, breaking off into a sharp gasp as Bull lifts his left arm up to see the full extent of it. "Damn it, _Bull_ -"

"No, go on, you were saying some shit about how it's all totally fine and you don't have any broken any ribs at all," Bull says, gently guiding Mahanon over a little to examine the rest of the bruise spilling over onto his back. "I keep telling you to watch your left when you're closing rifts-"

"They're not broken," Mahanon protests, his voice tight as Bull prods the edges of the bruise (he doesn't move away, though, doesn't shrink back from Bull's touch, because he trusts him. Always with that trust.) "Or if they are, not- not significantly?"

"' _Not significantly._ ' You know, I'm not the biggest fan of healers either, but they are pretty useful from time to time-"

"They were busy," Mahanon says, his voice suddenly quiet. Bull looks up, but Mahanon can't seem to meet his eye anymore, his own gaze fixed elsewhere.

Bull slips the rest of Mahanon's shirt off his shoulders (too thin, way too fucking thin) and takes Mahanon's face in his hands - not forcing him to look at him, but giving him the space to decide. Holding him until he's ready to come back. 

"How many did we lose?" he asks eventually. Quietly.

Mahanon closes his eyes. "Just over half the company. There was a rift, yes, but when we got there, a camp of red templars was waiting."

"So close?"

"Just over a day out. Leliana and Cullen are looking into it; they think they might have captured an old fortress north-west of here."

Mahanon's voice is dull and tired as he reports this, and Bull remembers for a moment how he'd cried, once, coming across a band of slaughtered Inquisition forces in the Hinterlands on one of their first excursions. How part of Bull couldn't begin to understand crying over dead soldiers who'd known what they were signing up for, and who'd clearly died fighting for something they believed in, because there were way shittier ways to go and Bull's seen more than a few of them.

Mahanon doesn't cry over dead soldiers anymore, because he can't afford to. But Bull knows it still hurts him. Knows he still probably remembers faces and names, and conversations over campfires, and mentions of wives and husbands and children. He doesn't think Mahanon will ever be the kind of person to let those memories go, even if it kills him. 

Which it could. Which it might. _Which it probably will_. 

"Punishing yourself isn't going to bring them back," Bull hears himself saying, his voice a little harder than it should be. 

"I'm not," Mahanon says, opening his eyes and finally meeting Bull's gaze again. "I wouldn't endanger the Inquisition like that."

And that- honestly, it almost makes it worse, because it's clear that Mahanon gets that his health - fuck, his _life_  - doesn't belong to him anymore. That that mark in his hand makes him invaluable, and that dying wouldn't be a tragedy for loss of an elf named Mahanon Lavellan, but would spell the end of the Inquisitor and by extension, the Inquisition. That his death would honestly have nothing to do with who he is as a person.

He understands it, and he accepts it, and it makes Bull want to burn the whole of Skyhold to the fucking ground.

(The irony that Mahanon losing his identity in service of a higher cause feels so _wrong_ , but so horrifically familiar to Bull, isn't lost on him.)

"You're right, you wouldn't," Bull says, tracing his thumb over Mahanon's cheek. "Not on purpose, anyway. Healer tomorrow though, yeah?"

Mahanon huffs a sigh, but offers Bull a small smile. "Alright, _mother_."

"You and Krem need to stop calling me that, but _especially_  you," Bull scowls, ruffling Mahanon's hair before leaning down to start on Mahanon's leggings. Mahanon just laughs. "Like, it's bad enough when Krem does it, I'm not fucking him."

"I could have sworn I heard Dorian call you "daddy" once," Mahanon says innocently, lifting his hips to help Bull slip his leather breeches down over his legs. 

"That is very, _very_  different," Bull says. He catches sight of the edge of a neat suture on Mahanon's right thigh, turning his leg a little to reveal a stitched-up gash about five inches long. "Same fight?"

"It's not very deep," Mahanon shrugs. "I got worse off an unreasonably enormous forest spider back with the clan - that's that scar on my shoulder, the big one?"

"Yeah," Bull says, because he's memorized every scar and birthmark and freckle Mahanon has, by this point; the old and the new. "You're pretty decent at stitching shit, I'm surprised you never went in for healing."

Bull knows firsthand Mahanon's practical skills suturing wounds - he's got a nice new scar of his own, now, from a thrall's lucky swipe with a longsword down the back of his left arm about a month ago. Mahanon had insisted on stitching it up himself, his hands quick and gentle as he patched it up.

"My Keeper tried to teach me - I'm decent with sicknesses, if they're minor, but nothing on the surface," Mahanon says, slipping off his smallclothes and pulling himself up by the side of the bath with a pronounced wince. Bull shakes his head and scoops Mahanon up into his arms, plopping him into the hot bath and grinning as this causes Mahanon to yelp, water splashing over the sides of the tub. " _Augh-!_ Creators, _Bull_ , what a mess."

"You're welcome," Bull says, laughing as Mahanon flicks water at him. "Now who's making a mess?"

Mahanon wrinkles his nose at him, his tired eyes dancing as he leans back in the water with a long exhale. "I'll leave a very long thank-you and apology note to the cleaning staff explaining that any water damage is entirely your fault."

"Hey now, don't you sic the cleaning staff on me, I have a healthy amount of fearful respect for them," Bull says, picking up a washcloth and some jellied herbs Mahanon uses for soap (some kind of Dalish thing). "It's like cooks and bartenders - you never want to piss them off."

"So _that's_  why you're always flirting with Cabot," Mahanon says, reaching for the washcloth and raising an eyebrow as Bull holds it out of his reach. "If you're about to make me beg for it-"

"As fun as it is to make you beg for anything, nah," Bull says, grinning as Mahanon flushes at his words. "Just thought I'd lend a hand or two."

"Oh." Mahanon bites his lip, looking suddenly shy but certainly pleased with the offer. "You- um, you don't have to-"

"Boss, have I ever offered to do something I don't want to do?"

"You offered to come to the Winter Palace with me."

"Yeah, but I only half don't want to do that. The other half remembers how fucking fantastic Orlesian banquet food is." Bull lathers the washcloth with some of the Dalish soap, the mingling herbs releasing a very familiar, very "Mahanon" scent into the air. 

He starts with Mahanon's face, gently working the cloth over bruised cheeks and a slightly crooked nose from one misadventure or another, washing away sweat and dirt until he can start to pick out freckles sprinkled generously across Mahanon's dark skin. Mahanon just watches him, eyes half-lidded and warm as he turns his face this way and that under Bull's guiding hand.

The hair is next, and Bull figures there has to be some kind of magic worked into the herb jelly for how he's able to work it through Mahanon's thick unruly curls, tangled from weeks on the road. Predictably he finds more than a few pine needles in there, as well as half of a very small twig and a few small patches of dried blood. He massages his fingers through Mahanon's hair as the knots fall to wet curls under the soap and hot water, and soon he can hear the unmistakeable rumbling of Mahanon's purr. 

This stops abruptly when he takes the washcloth to Mahanon's long ears, giving them a good scrubbing. Mahanon laughs and squirms away from him, flicking more water into his face until he stops. 

" _Ass_ ," Mahanon says, sounding very fond. He touches the tips of his sensitive ears as Bull continues on his mission, adding a little more soap to the cloth to start on Mahanon's shoulders. "How have you been, anyway? You and the Chargers left before I did, you must have some good stories."

"What, you expect me to bathe you _and_  entertain you?"

" _Your Lord Inquisitor commands thee_ ," Mahanon intones, putting on what Bull is sure Mahanon thinks is a very impressive nobleman's voice - far deeper than his natural tenor, and with an odd mix of an Orlesian and Antivan accent.

"Is there any way I could convince you to try to keep that voice up throughout the whole shindig in Orlais?"

"Not a chance, at all. They'd throw me off a balcony for certain, and all of Leliana and Josephine's comportment lessons would be for nothing." 

"Worth it." Mahanon pouts at him, and Bull laughs. "Alright, fine, yeah, there are stories. Krem nearly got himself married to a duchess."

" _What?_ "

"I told him he should have gone through with it and just taken the money and run, and he punched me. Really hard. Pretty fucking proud, actually, kid's developed a great right hook over the years."

"Bull, _vhenan_ , that is a story that requires you to start at the _absolute_  beginning." 

-

To his credit, Mahanon manages to stay awake through the entirety of that first story - how Krem didn't know the lady he'd been flirting with was a cousin of royalty, and how he definitely didn't know that drinking from a woman's cup in that part of Ferelden was a way of accepting a marriage proposal - but his eyes start to droop as Bull moves on to stories from the road, little bits of banters and interesting sights that he really just recounts to fill the air as Mahanon slips into a bit of a doze, that sleepy purr gently rumbling from his chest again. He barely rouses as Bull finishes up and lifts him back out of the tub, letting Bull towel him off as he seems to slip from sleep to half-consciousness and back again. 

"I'm starting to see how you fell asleep on the stairs," Bull says, massaging the towel over Mahanon's drying curls and chuckling a little as this causes Mahanon to smile dopily at him, purring a little louder in response. "Does the Seeker just like, not let you sleep at all when you're on the road with her?"

"Don't sleep as well," Mahanon murmurs, turning to brush his lips against Bull's wrist. "It's hard when you're not there, or Dorian. Preferably both. I really quite like the both of you a lot."

"Good to know," Bull says. Then, out of curiosity, adds, "Any reason why not?"

Mahanon shakes his head. "None. No reason not to like you, you're wonderful."

"No, I mean, why you don't sleep well."

"Oh." Mahanon frowns, swaying a little and clearly on the verge of falling asleep again, before he finally says, "Nightmares."

"You get nightmares with us, sometimes."

"Not like these." Mahanon frowns deeper, and for a moment his sleepy contentment seems to fall away, and his eyes are as tired and as haunted as they were earlier, when he spoke of losing half his soldiers. Then he sighs, and shakes his head again, pressing in close to Bull. "Not important."

Bull doesn't really believe this, and wonders if these "nightmares" have anything to do with Mahanon's weight loss, and the lines of stress forming in his youthful skin. He's seen _asala-taar_  enough times to recognize the symptoms, after all. 

But it seems unfair to press when Mahanon is half-awake (even though the Hissrad in Bull can't help but note that Mahanon is far more likely to talk like this, barely-conscious and warm and safe), so he decides to drop it.

For now.

"Alright, to bed then," Bull says, picking Mahanon up again and carrying him out of the bathing chamber. "Nightclothes?"

"Don't give a shit."

"Fair enough." Bull eases back the covers of Mahanon's bed, laying Mahanon down on pillows that are nearly bigger than he is. "Sleep, then to the healer tomorrow, because if Dorian comes back and sees you all black and blue like this you know he's gonna fuss."

"He's very sweet when he fusses," Mahanon says. He reaches up and catches Bull's hand, looking suddenly uncertain. _Afraid_. "Will- um, will you stay with me?"

His tired eyes are somber and imploring, and Bull finds himself feeling a lot of things at once. 

Something like fear, because even though this is a temporary question, it's one that might eventually require a permanent answer. An answer that Bull really, really wants to give, even if it feels too much like a promise that's somehow half-broken already.

Something like regret, or sadness, maybe a little like mourning, thinking of that young, bright thunderstorm of an elf he met on the beach almost two years ago, who flinched when he killed and cried for the deaths of others and now does neither of those things. 

And something... well, something. Being thrown from the Qun and facing the threat of a life without purpose could have felt like losing a part of himself he could never get back, and it did, to an extent. But it turned out he'd already given at least part of that away already.

Part, to a sharp-tongued 'Vint who pretends not to care because of how much he fucking cares, all the time, about a lot of things, Bull included.

And part, to this elf. This fucking elf, with his big eyes and sweet smile and open, honest - _too fucking honest_ \- heart. 

And despite everything, all the shit they've still got left to face and all the shit that's still riding on their heels... well, that _something_ feels a lot like peace.

"Don't worry, kadan," Bull says, stepping out of his trousers and sliding in next to Mahanon, who instantly curls up on him, head pillowed on Bull's chest and an arm over Bull's torso as he purrs happily into Bull's collarbone. "I'm not going anywhere."

He strokes a hand over Mahanon's damp hair, playing with the curls thoughtfully, and he's sure Mahanon's fallen asleep until he hears him murmur, "What does that mean? ' _Kadan_?'"

Bull pauses, then smiles, leaning down to press a kiss to Mahanon's head. "Ask me again sometime."

**Author's Note:**

> "Asala-taar" means "soul sickness" in Qunlat - PTSD essentially - and HO BOY does Mahanon have it in spades but that's a much less fluffy story for another time. 
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who's commented on the last two stories and asked for more!! I love writing Mahanon and I love his happy little poly lovefest and the fact that other people like it make me happy so eyy. Thank you for showing love for these idiots because it honestly makes my day (and hey if you want more stories with these guys, let me know!!).
> 
> Also, Dorian would definitely have a daddy!kink. Just a tiny one. Just saying.


End file.
